Mocking Bird
by Bloody Rot
Summary: Connor. Angel. Explosives.


**A/N:** I'm PMSing. I watched "Home" today and I cried. I had to write this. I love Connor, I'm sorry...I just adore him. He's so confused and hurt and half-witted. I can't help but adore him. I apologize for the ending. It just...AHH...I feel so tortured by my raging, feminine hormones.

****

**Mocking Bird**

_

* * *

_

_Hush little baby don't say a word..._

"You're not holding her right. Why don't you hold her right?"

He isn't holding her right. She's small and she's terrified and she's sobbing and he's telling her to shut up and he isn't holding her right. I've strapped them in with explosives, snug and tight and cozy. It's how they should feel...I bet it's how they feel at home. In their huge, suburban house or their studio apartment, I bet it's warm in there. It's cold in here.

There's florescent lights and its cold in here.

They don't have to worry, though. It'll be warm again pretty soon.

_Papa's gonna buy you a mocking bird..._

My father never held me right. Either of them. But...Father tied me to a tree once and I was snug, and tight, and cozy. That's kind of like holding me...right?

_And if that mocking bird don't sing..._

Cordy held me and she held me on multiple occasions. She wrapped her arms around me and I cried in her shoulder and she called me "sweetie" and "honey" and other such endearments. Her arms were around me as we made love, but it wasn't love. Never love. No one loves me.

Love made Jasmine and Jasmine loved all and then I killed her. I ripped her head off and she was gone, but it was okay. I didn't feel it. I never felt anything.

_Papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring..._

Dad hates me. Cordy said. He always says he loves me, but he hates me. That's because he lies. Dad lies. Cordy lies.

Mom lies.

_If that diamond ring turns brass..._

If so many people love me, then why am I so empty? Love. Love is something that I have starved for since the moment I could retain a single memory. I'm beginning to believe that love is a myth...maybe not even a myth. A lie. Like Santa or something. Fred told me about Santa once, over the summer, while Dad was swimming with the sharks.

"You got in. I thought you might."

_Papa's gonna buy you a looking glass..._

Dad hugged me once. He squeezed and sighed into my hair and he even paused for a moment. But it was only a moment. A single moment.

And moments breeze by really fast. Sometimes I can't catch them.

"Connor? Son?"

_And if that looking glass gets broke..._

Dad hit me before. He's hit me a lot of times, but those times don't count as much. He punched my face in rapid succession until my blood stained his fists and I couldn't see anymore. Because sometimes, when Dad hits me, when I can't feel anything but pain and loathing and anger...that's when it goes dark. It hurts less then. When it goes dark.

_Papa's gonna buy you a billy goat..._

It's loud now. It bangs. But it's just the same as it was, even if they're all sobbing even more. Even if Dad just jumped. The clock doesn't stop for whimpering and tears.

I tell him he can't save them all, but Dad always has to be the hero. It's okay. He can be the hero. I just want it to stop. All of it to stop. I want time to stop, because no matter how quickly it moves, it leaves me standing here.

And I don't like standing here.

_If that billy goat don't pull..._

Cordelia's eyes are closed. They've been closed for a long time now. When I blink really fast, I sometimes think she's opened them, but that's just my eyes playing tricks again. I really want her to wake up, but its okay. My eyes will be closed soon too. And that little girl's eyes. They'll be closed. And that man who's holding her...his will be closed, too.

_Papa's gonna buy you a cart and mule...._

"...I love you, son."

He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. Sometimes, when I'm alone in the garden I pick a flower and do that thing with the petals. I always looked around before doing it...no one can know. No one can ever know.

Never know how it always ended.

_If that cart and mule turn over..._

We fight. We always fight. He always wins. I can take him. I swear I can. But he always wins. I'll take you, Dad. I'll take you down one of these days and then you won't smile and smirk and talk about how you trained me and you won't be better than me and maybe they'll love me like they love you and maybe, just maybe...

_Papa's gonna buy you a dog named Rover..._

"I really do love you, Connor."

And there's a knife, and it's in his hand. The blade, it gleams.

_If that dog named Rover won't bark..._

He loves me. He loves me not...I hope he stabs me. I hope that knife cuts into my flesh and I hope I bleed and bleed and bleed, because if there's enough of blood, then it means that I'm not empty. That I wasn't empty. There was plenty of red, rich blood flooding through me all of this time and I was never empty.

And I never felt like this.

_Papa's gonna buy you a horse and cart..._

I want you to love me, Dad. I want it so, so badly...

"So what are you gonna do about it?"

_If that horse and cart fall down..._

Father tied me to a tree once and I was there for five days. The ropes burned and cut into my flesh and I bled and I found my way back and Father patted me on the head and called me a good boy. Good boy. I always liked being Father's good boy.

"Prove it."

The knife, the knife, the knife. The blade, it gleams. I close my eyes because Cordy's are closed and soon, everyone else will just go to sleep and dream this day away.

It hurts less behind my eyelids. It's dark in here. Light doesn't penetrate the skin.

There's a clatter and Dad's cold, but he feels warm. He's holding me, sighing into my hair, and he whispers my name and says something that sounds like "love" and something else that sounds like "you". And for once, it feels good that things lie. Things like flowers and their petals. Every flower I have ever picked, every petal dismembered....a velvety lie between the pads of my fingers.

_Then you'll be the sweetest little baby in town... _


End file.
